Her knees are back together from helping me ease off the last of her modesty, and I take a deep pleasure in sliding my hands up the lengths of her legs, my thumbs finding that sensitive spot above her knees and just on the inside of her thighs. There’s a moment when I see it—see us—see my hands being the hands of a thirty-six-year-old man with a too-expensive watch glinting on his wrist. See her legs being the smooth and slender legs of a woman barely budded into womanhood.
It’s wrong to be turned on by that. Wrong to notice it in a way that makes me hungry for more.
But I can’t help it. It’s like every reason I shouldn’t do this—her age and her impending vows and the fact that she’s Elijah’s little sister—makes it more and more undeniably arousing.
I push her legs apart and finally see what I’ve been mad with wanting.
“Oh Zenny,” I say in a choked growl. “Oh darling.”
“Sean,” she says, and that’s it. Just my name.
Every part of her quivers.
I take my time looking at her, committing every single curve and fold of her to memory. The curls kept short and neat, the cleft itself shaved bare, revealing all of itself proudly. And when I run my thumbs up her thighs to caress her outer lips, I feel for myself how fucking soft and silky she is. My cock feels like the skin will split it’s so fucking hard; a jut of painful need throbbing in my pants. It’s getting so difficult to remember why I wanted to follow this little plan of mine, especially now when I can see the rich, wet opening waiting for me. And—oh fuckkkkk—when I part that opening with my thumbs, I can see her most secret place. The place that blushes into wet and pink and tight.
I groan and close my eyes. And then I open my eyes to see her gazing up at me with an expression of pure, liquid trust.
It melts me. Renders me into something both less and more than a man.
“Your pussy is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I inform her. And then before she can argue or laugh or respond, I bend down and give that sweet cunt an inaugural kiss, taking my time to taste her, to lick her, to find the satin skin under her opening with my tongue, the needy little nub at her apex.
She lets out something that sounds like the cross between a laugh and a wail—an inelegant noise that comes right from her belly—all surprise and longing. I grin against her pussy, because I’ve heard so many women issue the kinds of practiced moans they think men want to hear, scheduled gasps and oohs and oh you’re so good. But I’d take Zenny’s laugh-wail over those other noises any time.
I kiss her pussy thoroughly, deeply, taking advantage of my armless sofa and moving between her legs—knees on the floor, wide shoulders folded in between her thighs, my hands sliding greedily under her ass to lift her to my face.
As with everything, she is a contradiction. Artless and deliberate, embarrassed but driven past caring. I feel it in the way she jolts and squirms the first time my tongue laps at the pleats of her asshole, in the way her feet confidently rub at my back while her hands cling desperately to my wrists, the squeeze of her fingers asking questions I know she’s too proud to voice.
Do I taste good?
Do you like it?
Do you like me?
My tongue and my hunger answer for me. Yes, she fucking tastes good, a clean kind of sweetness with that rich undertone that seems calculated to drive men like me mad. Yes, I like it, I’m starving for it, starving like a mortal who’s tasted fairy fruit and now can never eat anything else again.
Yes, I like her.
I like her too much. A worrying amount.
“You taste so sweet,” I grind out as I pull back for a breath. “So fucking sweet. And you smell—” I bury my nose in her and breathe it in, which makes her squeeze her legs together in embarrassment. I let her, because it only accomplishes locking me in closer, tighter against her, and then I take my time smelling, deliberately running my nose along the outside folds and to the tip of her clit and then down between her cheeks, which makes her jolt in panic.
I place a firm hand on her tummy to keep her still, splaying my fingers so they can stroke her mound as I keep her pinned where I like. “Stay still for this,” I tell her. “Stay still for me.”
Her eyes are so hooded that I can see the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheeks and her chest heaves with short, needy breaths. Through the lavender silk of her bra, her nipples are plucked out into proud little points. “It feels so good,” she whispers. “I just worry…I’ve never…”
“I know you’ve never. That’s why I’m practically fucking the side of the couch while I smell you and stare at you.”
Her lips part in an expression of undiluted lust. “Are you really?”
“Sit up on your elbows and look down at me.”
She does, and I know what she sees—my body bent over the couch, my hips grinding mindlessly into the cushions.
“You’re that horny?” she murmurs. “Because of me?”
“Because of you.”
She blinks, as if she can’t believe it, which is insane to me. Yes, the nun thing, but she’s gorgeous and fascinating and smart and effortlessly captivating—surely she’s had men desire her like this, crave her like this.
“Zenny, I’ve been stroking my cock all week thinking about you. Every day, I have to pull myself out and beat off, just so I can see straight. This pussy is all I’ve been thinking about for a week, and it’s even prettier and tastier than I dreamed of. I want my fill of it.”
“Okay.”
“I want my fill of you.”
A long shuddering exhale. “I think I want my fill of you too.”
I give her a wicked grin. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
She smiles back, a smile that flickers into an adorable look of concentration as my finger probes her folds and slowly teases at the wet, soft border of her entrance. And then tenderly, carefully, I push in to the first knuckle, watching her face the entire time. She’s so goddamn tight, so goddamn small, that even with all her wet coating me, the tip of my finger still feels like a huge invasion.
I have to swallow when I think about how she’ll fit around my cock. She’ll stretch around me, grip me, fit me tighter than a glove.
Jesus Christ. I’m about to blow inside my pants again.
“This is how I’ll get you ready to take my body,” I explain in a kind voice, trying to focus on what we’re doing and THE PLAN, SEAN, THE FUCKING PLAN, which involves us going to bed together in a certain kind of way and does not involve me shoving my hand down my slacks and tugging on myself.
At least not at the moment.
I slide in to the second knuckle and watch her furrow her brow, as if she can’t decide if it hurts or it feels good. “I’ll stroke you from the inside, tickle you there and play with you, until you open up like a flower,” I continue. “Until you feel how empty you are. Until it hurts more to have me on the outside of you than on the inside.” I crook my finger up to press against that special spot on her front wall—I do it gently, gently, gently—and the light glints off her nose ring as she tosses her head back and forth.
“Sean,” she says, and there’s the first sparkle of sweat on her forehead and chest. “That feels…I…”